


A Strange And Empty Comfort.

by Pitseleh



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: AU, Everybody Lives, Friendship, M/M, Season 2 spoilers, Subtext, angsty fluffy shit with bits of hope sprinkled in idk hold me, fixit, i wrote this at midnight the night after the episode aired don't expect magic, meandering prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-26
Updated: 2011-10-30
Packaged: 2017-10-24 01:45:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/257501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pitseleh/pseuds/Pitseleh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sybil's feet are faster, some wounds are more shallow, and in war even death can be postponed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Strange And Empty Comfort.

**Author's Note:**

> I thought to myself, 'I should wait a few episodes to get proper perspective, so I don't write this on a purely emotional basis'. But then I couldn't sleep for the thought of it, and had to write it quickly, so here we are, with unabashed fixit fic that serves little purpose but just that. But the thought cheers me immensely, and that's all I need, really.

The bandages on Edward's wrist feels strangely warm, and as ever lately he cannot tell if it is false warmth and wishful thinking, or something more true. Lord above knows Edward has had a greater sense of feeling since he lost his sight, and Him only; Edward hasn't been able to move himself to tell anyone. It seems like a reward he doesn't deserve.

Still, it has its benefits. He very quickly can sense when someone approaches, and while he cannot ever quite tell _who_ , he can tell what. The nurses shoes clack where the men's shoes click, and the good doctor's shoes are soft and quiet as the air around Edward now.

Everyone's a little wary of the failed suicide.

Well, not everyone. Some are cloyingly close, and worried besides. But Edward would be a liar _and_ a coward if he said he didn't enjoy the attention. Luckily, no one asks.

Thomas and Nurse Crawley always lightly tap his shoulder when they come to see him, but he can guess who they are before then, from how close they get, friendly and familiar. He allows himself to think he has friends, that they care for him-- he is quite sure none else on this Earth do any longer. All other interaction can be attributed quite readily to pity and no small amount of revulsion. That, and relief. Edward imagines their faces, slackened with calm. _Thank God,_ they must think. _Thank God it was him, and not me._

Nurse Crawley always smells faintly of soap-- all the nurses do, really, but Edward likes to think Crawley does especially so. (Thomas smells of sweat and soap and he sounds like caution and worry.)

"Suppose I'll be staying, then," Edward says, hoping the desperation stays from his voice by virtue of his own sheer bloody-mindedness. He can't study anyone's expression to see if it works. The tone of everyone's voice is so pitying, lately; he can't tell how he comes across anymore.

"Well, you see..." Crawley's voice is melodious, Edward would liken it to a flute. She sounds unsure, though, a trembling tone, and Edward's heart lurches in his chest. His wrists will scar, and he will still be alone.

Perhaps he made a face, for Thomas cuts in, stumbling over himself to get his words out. "We'll be moving you. Moving near everyone, though-- we, we told the Crawleys about you-"

"Well, that is, Doctor Clarkson, really, he went to my family and... well, he told them what... what happened..."

"That I opened my wrist with a spare shaver?" Edward's voice is more bitter than necessary. He imagines Nurse Crawley flinching, her green eyes alight in the sun he can feel streaming in through the windows. Thomas, meanwhile, squares his jaw, a frown forming under his clean-cut red hair.

It's Nurse Crawley, though, who speaks first. "Yes," she says, unwilling to submit to Edward's sentimentality. Even this girl is braver than him. "And they decided it'd be a bright idea to open up the estate for convalescents."

"You'll be near," Thomas says in his queer way. He always has a slight tremble in his voice; Edward can never quite place it. "We'll visit."

Edward only nods, curt, and squares his shoulders, feeling the heat of his shame warm in his face. To be so coddled is a strange and empty comfort. "Thank you... for telling me," he manages.

Thomas puts his hand on Edward's shoulder. Through his uniform, his palm is very warm. "I'll see you," he says, "I swear it."

"I'll be by, you know, of course I will." Nurse Crawley chimes in. Her hand is also warm on his shoulder.

And on his knees, he can feel the warmth from the sun above.


	2. Near All The Words,

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote these largely for myself, and decided to post them to just get it off my chest. I hope you enjoy my shameless idfic.

There is a sort of comfort to the forest: the brambles snap underneath his feet, and confirm each step, and the steps of his guide. He makes a point of going on a walk at least once daily, and while the doctors have not yet allowed him to go unsupervised, he finds he does not mind overmuch, being minded.

When he walks with Sybil, they do not speak of the future. Edward talks of his past, his family and his childhood, his schooling. Sybil speaks of growing up in the hallowed halls of Downton, and learning French from her Governess. She says his youth sounds ideal, and he knows better than to say the same of hers.

When he walks with Thomas, they never speak of the past. He supposes that hits too near to their shared wounds. Thomas can still use his hand, though, and while Edward no longer feels that bitter stinging envy at that fact, he's clear-headed enough now to acknowledge that his jealousy is only dormant.

Instead, they speak of the future. Thomas hopes to stay in the doctoring profession for as long as he may, even after the war-- "Don't know how much warring they can do, after all this. Maybe I can be an assistant, make house calls."

As for Edward, he isn't quite sure. "My family will set me up with a nice little flat in London, they tell me. But I'll need a proper job. Don't know what that'll be."

Thomas chuckles, the sound slightly muffled. He's smoking, Edward realizes, as soon as the wind blows smoke in his direction. "Oh, all you need to do is find a rich old widow to marry."

Edward narrowly avoids a low-hanging branch. "Good plan. Too good for you, I suppose?"

Thomas coughs.

It is perhaps a little bolstering, to see vague suspicions consistently confirmed, if vaguely. Edward continues on. "Can't see you marrying, no."

Thomas is silent, and walking a bit faster, if the whispering crush of the dead leaves of Downton can be believed.

"You just don't seem the kind, really."

Now Thomas is walking toward him.

"Don't know what you'd do with a wife, me-" And Thomas comes near him, and presses him against a tree with pinning force. Edward had not expected this response, and is slightly dazed for it; he dearly hates to be moved about when he is trying to move on his own, and it takes him some wild moments to reorient himself. Thomas fills that time with angry words, "What're you on about, then? Why don't you just bloody say it?"

Edward takes a shallow breath, trying to move his pinned shoulders. But Thomas' grip is surprisingly strong, and quickly growing painful. "I didn't mean-" Edward pauses a moment, letting the rising panic in his veins crash against his ribs, and he blinks a bit, gasping, to clear his mind. "I'm not on about anything, Thomas." There is perhaps some anger in his voice, he realizes. But he thinks he is perhaps a at this point entitled to it.

"Oh, really?" Thomas says, his voice flat and bitter in full as Edward has only heard hints of before. He's struck the nerve he wanted, it seems, at whatever price.

"Yes, really. Let go of me, Thomas."

Duly chastised, Thomas complies. Edward wishes he could see his face, to see if he was still angry. He will have to make him speak, and measure the tone of his words.

"I'm sorry, I seem to have... upset you."

"Bloody well did, saying I was a..." Thomas' voice trails off, still noticeably terse, and Edward hears the scratch and hiss of match being struck. He seems to have lost his cigarette in the confusion.

"Well," and Edward braces himself for the possibility of being hit, now that it seems that is indeed likely, "you are, aren't you?"

There is a sharp intake of breath. Thomas swears very quietly. And then he speaks, and his voice sounds very tired. "And what're you going to bloody do about it, then?"

Edward frowns. "Do about it...?"

Thomas curses once more, not near as quiet, and continues walking, his pace faster than Edward is comfortable matching. He tries anyway. "Thomas- Thomas, I-" A low hanging branch drags across his face, but he continues. "I'm sorry you're angry, but this-... I call it cowardly!"

This elicits bitter laughter from Thomas, far off and ahead of him. His pace does not slow, and so neither does Edward's.

"Thomas! I don't bloody care if you're a- a-"

Edward hears something crash, and instinct takes over; immediately, he is on the cold ground, hunched back against a tree. He can hear Thomas' footsteps bringing him nearer.

"Don't bloody say it; I hate near all the words for it." He says, when he is finally near enough for his voice to be heard.

"I don't know..." Edward finds his voice shamefully shaky, but he continues on despite himself. "I rather like invert." He stands, and reaches out to Thomas, who says nothing, but very gently he takes his hand.

After a time, but before they are out of the forest entire, Thomas says, "do you really? Like 'invert', that is?"

"It's more polite than half what I've heard."

"Suppose so."

In silence, they begin the walk back toward Downton.


	3. Good Enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for glancing mentions of spiders / webs.

He'd told a priest once, when he was very young and stupid, but he'd never told anyone since; at least, never with his words. Since then, he'd relied on other tricks to make it clear what he was: either perverse, or perversely opportunistic.

So it was strange, after all this time, for Edward to know his little secret without any edge of sin. If he's honest with himself, Thomas _had_ been dropping hints, but it was in small, stupid ways, and really it was Edward's fault for suggesting they read bloody Wilde in the first place.

Their walks have become longer, and more inclined to linger; they'll sit, and Thomas will weave nervous daisy-chains while Edward makes his way around whichever scarce little clearing they've found today.

Thomas used to take him to the same one with some consistency, but Edward, to his divine credit, began to notice and demanded they vary the setting so he could get better at dodging roots and snarls in new environments.

"I can learn my house when I have one. Best I focus on unknown rooms, now."

And Thomas complied, for he has nothing left to do. There have been times when Thomas has held close confidences with people before-- old O'Brian at the house certainly counted for something. But if she knew, it wasn't because he had anything to do with it. Their conversations were always mercenary, never personal. They were not the sort who had pesonal conversations, or perhaps Thomas was the private one, and O'Brian was just polite enough to follow suit.

Thomas is fairly sure he's the only man alive who thinks O'Brian polite. But only in comparison.

"Oh-"

"Christ, sorry," In his daydreaming, Thomas has forgotten to watch the bloody path, and there are roots and snarls the Earl of Grantham probably leaves in because it enhances the rustic bloody appeal.

"It's fine," Edward says, now leaning against a tree. There is a spider crawling up toward Edward's knee from the brambles below, and without a word Thomas lifts a heel and crushes it underfoot. Edward shifts, slightly, to the source of the noise, but does not ask, and Thomas does not answer; surely Thomas is the worst nurse in history, but he has no patience for narration, or to narrate his every ambiguous movement to a man experiencing them with him, even in a lesser capacity.

He'll save his words for the important things.

They walk in silence the rest of the way, and reach a new clearing, where it seems someone attempted to build an orchard or something like, in years and years long past. There is a rotted gazebo to their far left, which Thomas does not go near for fear of dying in its inevitable collapse. Around them are many chopped-down trees with little saplings growing in the stumps, all in a half-circle round them like a fence. And if Thomas looks hard enough at the ground, he can see the indents, where a stone path once was before it was ripped hap-hazard from the ground. This used to be a pleasure walk, he guesses, and imagines the great-grandfathers of the current Earl all clustered round them in times long past, talking about Napoleon or Charlemagne for all he knows, sipping sherry fresh from the white-knuckled hands of their thirsty servants.

When the war is over, Thomas will drink sherry.

Edward doesn't know how their surroundings differ from the usual be-brambled expanse, and Thomas shoulders the weight of the guilt for that, but does nothing to lighten it. So Edward goes on his way, just teetering around in the overgrown grass, feeling his way around each tree and failing to walk into a spiderweb by luck of God's own bleeding miracle.

After a while, he talks.

"Why did you join the effort, then? I was called up."

Edward is good at making conversation and being pleasant, when he isn't trying to open his wrists or hiding from loud noises. Thomas supposes they teach you that at proper school they send little boys with rich fathers off to.

Himself, he's never been much good at being pleasant. Being interesting always got him farther.

"Seemed like a good idea at the time." Thomas begins fiddling for a cigarette. "Joined the day war was declared. Bit earlier than the proper declaration, though. If I'd known things'd go that way they did, I'd've stayed a bloody footman."

"You would have been called up eventually."

"I'd've ran."

"You would not."

"I would. Swear it." Not pleasant, but interesting. He puts a grin in his voice, and Edward, currently making his way around a tree stump with a tree growing out the side of it, grins back.

"Well, if it's a solemn swear, I've no place to doubt your honor." Edward can be pleasant, but he can also be interesting. It's why he's worth Thomas' time. "Where did you go to school, Thomas?"

"Never been to university, if that's what you're asking." Thomas huffs on his cigarette. "I got taught my letters by the matron and did my prayers in the abbey next door. A proper abbey, not the castle you sleep in."

"You sleep there, too," Edward says as he narrowly avoids walking into a tree trunk.

"Not the way you do."

Edward, ever judicious, drops the subject in favor of his idyllic childhood. "I had a teacher, huge old woman, who used to threaten to beat me if I didn't do my recitations correctly." He pauses a moment, thinking. "Seems a shame that I can remember her face, but I'll never know yours."

Edward last lamented his state a half-month ago, and so Thomas knows well enough to treat his words with more irreverence than sympathy. "You're not missing much."

Edward shrugs. "I imagine you look different to suit your mood. It's quite handy when you're being an arse."

Thomas smiles and puts his hands out in front of him in the most theatrical gesture he'll allow himself, even in front of a blind man in the middle of the woods. "What can I say? When life gives me lemons..."

"...you act a sour sorehead." Edward smiles, though, and sits on the tree stump not far from Thomas' own.

"Sorehead, Eddy? Does anyone say that anymore?"

"You call me Eddy and I'll call you Tommy, and neither of us will come out the better for it." But he's still smiling, and that's what matters. "And plenty of people say sorehead. Now, did you bring anything to eat?"

"No one our age, I'll tell you that much. And I got some sandwiches from the kitchens, thank you very much."

"Yes," Edward says, "thank you very much."

They eat in silence. Edward has become-- or perhaps he always was-- a very careful eater, and Thomas, used to having to eat quickly, slows to wait until he's finished. One day, he won't; it isn't as if Edward can tell what Thomas does if he's not too loud about it. But he'll savor his stolen food today.

Edward is always the first one to speak. "We're in a clearing, aren't we?"

"Can you tell by the birds singing?" Thomas imagines the triptych of this moment: one panel of the blind soldier, another of the birds whispering all nature's secrets to him, and the final image of the soldier regaining his sight through the power of his faith.

But they don't make parables about people like them.

Anyway, Edward says, "the sun's warmer on my face here than the path," and that's that.

Edward gets up and goes back to walking. He's got the north half of the clearing mostly mapped out, and Thomas watches to make sure he doesn't walk into a well. He avoids all obvious obstructions, though he isn't yet good enough at walking blind to make it look like he isn't still stumbling around in the dark. Thomas has seen a few blind beggars in his time, and they made quicker work of it. Then again, a few were probably only pretending.

Not that Thomas thinks Edward will ever have to make much of begging. As far as he's been able to glean from reading Edward's letters to him, his father owns some kind of factory in London, and once he can read and walk properly again, they're going to set him up with a cosy little flat nearby.

Thomas shrugs, and rolls the paper he brought the sandwiches in, and tosses it behind the nearest tree.

"Hey. Hey! Get away from there, now." The forest is largely silent, and Edward is more sensitive to sound than most, and so he stops where right where he is, and Thomas gets up to pester him. "There's a gazebo, there, looks like it's about to fall apart."

"Seemed like plush stairs, to me... It's moss, then?" Edward continues to tap at the side of the thing-- there are stairs on the far side. Thomas stands next to Edward, gazing at the thing at this new angle.

It looks more and more likely to topple by the moment.

"It looks like it's going to fall over, is what it is."

"Well, you've piqued my curiosity," Edward says, and, ignoring Thomas' protests, he steps easily inside. Thomas stands, frowning, for a moment, before climbing inside behind him to keep a low-hanging spider web off the both of them.

"You don't mind bugs, I hope."

"Have I led us into a hornet's nest?"

"No, just full up with bloody spiders."

"Well, I think I'd prefer not to see that. Shall we leave?" He offers Thomas his arm, like he's an old lady at a dance, or maybe a younger one. Thomas will be the first to admit he's not entirely sure how that system works. But he knows well enough to take Edward's arm and lead him out of the gazebo, which creaks awfully underneath them, and finally breaks as Thomas walks out, sending his food right through the bottom step.

"Fuck!"

Thomas lets go of Edward's arm as not to pull them both down, and nearly lands on his face, muddying his elbows and feeling the twist of the bones in his leg, strained but not breaking. After a moment to catch his breath, he begins the slow struggle to remove his foot from all the mud that has congealed over the years into a hungry sinking pit beneath the gazebo.

"Are you alright?" Edward asks very quickly, and Thomas nods a yes out of habit.

"Fine, fine. My bleeding foot is caught in the stairs."

"Damned inconvenient of it." Edward is almost smiling as he bends down to poke blindly-- and there's a laugh-- at Thomas' ankle, feeling how it's stuck and where it's snagged. "You pull and I push. Don't want you tearing up a floorboards."

"This thing's a bloody ruin, it's falling apart."

"I'm imagining it beautiful, now, don't break my heart." Edward says, and Thomas can't see if he's grinning or no, but it bloody sounds like it.

"Promise I won't do that." Thomas takes a moment to gather his thoughts. "Alright, push."

It takes some minutes, but eventually Thomas has his foot free, if covered in thick mud and some spindly crawling creatures. He wipes it all off on the grass, occasionally stepping on what needs killing, after being told on no uncertain terms that Edward can manage to escape the gazebo himself. To his credit, he did avoid the new hole in the gazebo quite deftly.

"Are you alright?"

"Fine, fine. Just going to track mud on Downton's precious carpets, is all."

"And I'm sure you're relishing the opportunity." Edward is sitting on a tree stump, now, resting his hands on his cane before him. "Could I ask you for something?"

"Yeah, I have another cigarette, hold on-"

"No, no, come here."

This is an odd request, and odd request, Thomas has learned, must always be obeyed immediately. Ignoring his still-muddy shoe, he walks over, sitting on the tree stump opposite Edward's.

Edward does not respond, only puts his hand up to feel Thomas' face. It takes a moment for him to grasp what he's doing, the new vocabulary of the blind mixing oddly with the old vocabulary of his youth.

"Right then, one nose, two eyes, there you have it."

"I fear I'll be terribly disappointed if your hair isn't the color I've been imagining it."

"You're right if you've been imagining black."

Edward huffs, and Thomas can't tell with what emotion it's with. "Let's say it was. Here."

The kiss isn't entirely unexpected; Thomas himself was trying to decide when, or where, the act would be most appreciated. Edward being the one to do it is pleasant, though, and Thomas lets his thoughts linger on that.

"Was that what you were asking for?" Thomas says when the kiss-- well-meaning and short-- has been broken.

"No, I was going to ask you to tell me your feelings on the matter."

"On the- the kiss?" It seems absurd to Thomas, but Edward's brows are creasing and he is beginning to frown. Thomas chuckles, stalling to see what happens, but when nothing does-- save, perhaps, the slope of Edward's mouth becoming more severe -- he answers. "My feelings... are good?"

"Good?"

"Good enough," Thomas says, and they kiss again.


End file.
